After Midnight

By Jean Haus

Dustan Reid has just received his own personal fairy. Straight out of an enchanted forest.

He just doesn’t know it.

Instead, he thinks Harmony is the most annoying, pushy girl he’s ever met. Not that Dustan meets or much less talks to girls. He’s too busy trying to keep his grades up and working at his step-dad’s motorcycle garage—while his stepbrothers work at the art of hanging out. But the freedom graduation will finally bring isn’t too far off.

Harmony’s determined to find true love for Dustan, with or without his consent. He may be a little rough around the edges, but she can totally see the killer looks lurking behind the shaggy hair and thick glasses. So she sets her matchmaking sights on the most popular girl in school. Hardworking Dustan only deserves like the best. Besides, with magic up her hot pink sleeve, this job should be way easy.

But nothing comes without a price.

Especially true love.

Appropriate for grade nine and up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean Haus
• Release date: Jul 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476025940

Jean Haus

Jean Haus is the author of the Luminescent Juliet series, which revolves around a sexy, talented indie band in a small college town. She lives in Michigan with her husband and son, where she spends almost as much time teaching, cooking, and golfing as she does thinking about the tough but vulnerable rockers featured in her books. Visit Jean online at http://www.jeanhaus.com.

Book preview

Part One:

In His World

Chapter 1

In the distance, a bell rings. I’m lying in something wet. No wait, just my face is wet and smashed against a cold surface. Damn. I fell asleep in Trig. Again. I need this credit to graduate and more importantly to get the hell out of my house, my job, and my life. I force my eyes open and conspicuously try to wipe my drool with my arm. A tap sounds on the desk. Great. The hottest girl in school gets to frown at my slobber. Again. I sit up, adjust my glasses, and push my scraggly hair from my forehead. Hey Mirana, I say wistfully like an idiot.

Hi, she says, tugging a long strand of dark hair behind her ear. Long lashes sweep down as she checks out the desk and frowns at the wet smears.

While students going to their desks snicker at my sleepy appearance, I realize she’s gorgeous even with a nose wrinkled in disgust. Sorry, I say like usual and grab my books from the dusty floor. Standing, I draw in my daily intake of vanilla and citrus that hangs in the air around her.

She tries to offer me a smile. It’s more of a grimace. That’s the thing about Mirana. She might not know my name—if she refers to me at all, it’s probably the lanky guy with too long brown hair and thick glasses that drools on her second hour desk. She possibly thinks I’m the school’s biggest loser. She’s out of my league—hell, she’s out of everyone’s league, including her boyfriend Eric ‘Jock’ Cross. But Mirana Mayes is just plain nice.

Her constant shadow and opposite, Rachel, sneers at me. What do you do, stay up all night playing online video games or something? I wish. Playing video games until two in the morning would rock, but no, that’s when I try to study. Her sneer widens. Or are you surfing the web, perv?

Rachel! Mirana hisses which keeps my retort from coming out. But Rachel still gives me the evil eye as I race out of class.

Out in the hall, I run to my second hour, but I’m predicting a tardy and another lunch detention. At least I can sleep in lunch detention without looking like a loser. Rounding a corner, I run straight into a wall of muscle. Books fly everywhere. Papers flap like birds taking flight before thuds echo in the empty hallway.

Hey, watch where you’re going!

Yeah, yeah, sorry, I say, bending to pick up the mess.

A wall of muscle flexes. Yeah, your sorry ass is going pick up my books.

I stand and face the tall, head shaved mass in front of me. Chad or is it Chaz? I might not know his name, but he’s a super jock, state champion in wrestling or something. Though I’m tall and lean muscle, he’s taller and huge muscle. Look, it was an accident—

Pick up, he grabs my shirt and tugs me to his eye level, my books.

His breath is hot stank. His eyes bulge from their sockets. I’m on my tiptoes and my shirt is getting stretched into a 2X. I don’t have time for his crap. Let me go, I say, wrapping my hand around his.

The bell rings. Great. I’m going to get an ass kicking and a lunch detention.

You gonna pick up my books?

While he jeers at me, I imagine getting my ass kicked—hey, I might get in a few good hits—getting suspended for fighting, getting kicked off the track team, and not getting a sports scholarship, but I can’t imagine picking up this guy’s books as he stands over me like a prick from a teeny bopper movie. I take enough crap at home. I’m not going to take it from this wannabe. No.

He clenches his teeth and tugs at me harder. My worn t-shirt is about to tear when someone below us says, Hello. I was wondering if one of you could help me.

We both look down. A girl with spiked white-blonde hair smiles and flutters her lashes at us. For a moment, I’m caught in her green-eyed stare. Then Chaz/Chad absently tightens his hold and I’m choking.

He gives her a blank expression. Whada ya need?

With his attention on her, I tug on his chokehold while gasping for air.

Her fluttering lashes stop and she stares at him with narrowed eyes so bright they practically glow. She pulls out a school map from between her books. Maybe you could like release him and tell me how to get to my next class? Today’s my first day here and I’m like totally lost.

I gawk at the girl. Really, I don’t need some pint-sized girl saving me from a real life Hulk. He slowly pulls his gaze from her and glances at me as if he forgot I’m clenched in his meaty fist. Ah, sure. He releases me so fast I almost fall.

With some female attention, he completely forgets about me. They bend over the map and discuss how to get to the science wing. I snag my scattered books, which form a circle around us, then take off. I’m about halfway down the hall and late for class again, when, Hey wait up! echoes from behind. A spiked head bobs toward me as she runs.

Hi! Where are you heading? She jogs to keep up with my brisk walk.

Why she wants to know is beyond me, but I say, Anatomy.

She waves a schedule. Oh, me too! She smiles wide. I’m Harmony. You know like in singing.

Rimmed in blue her eyes resemble a cartoon raccoon. Huge pink hoops jingle from her ears. Her spiky hair could poke an eye out. And the neon green of her shirt is blinding. Obviously, odd new girl is out to make friends. Opening the classroom door, I only nod at her.

Mrs. James steps away from her computer and holds out a pink paper. Hello Mr. Reid, come get your lunch detention slip.

Oh, he was helping me, Harmony says from the doorway. I’m new today and got way lost. Several students look up from their books to stare at her. I’m sure they looked because of the new comment. However, her hair and bright clothes hold their stare.

The pink slip pauses mid-air. And who are you?

Harmony Hill. She waves the schedule again. I started today.

Dustan go sit down. Mrs. James sets the pink slip on her desk. Let me see that schedule. She plucks the paper from Harmony as I go to my seat. Hmm…No one emailed me about a new student, but it appears you do have this class. She regards the classroom. Since you already know Dustan, why don’t you have a seat behind him? He’ll tell you what you should be doing just don’t pick up his tardy habits.

Harmony grins at the students staring at her and makes her way to the back of the room. Once she sits, I point to the anatomy book on her desk then point to the blackboard. Copy those words and look them up. Keep them in a notebook or folder to hand in at the end of the marking period. After that, start on the assignment listed at the bottom. Whatever her intentions, her smile’s far too friendly. I don’t have time for homework much less friends.

"Okay, Dustan. Thanks for the info. She hikes up her too low tank top and I can’t help noticing she does have nice cleavage. Too bad, I don’t have time for girls. I guess that means you just owe me one. I arch a brow. I saved you from Gigantor and from a detention. That’s worth at least lunch."

My eyebrow rises higher. This girl has got some lady balls. Too bad I have lunch detention today, and I don’t believe I ever asked for your help.

What-ever, she says with a white smile that almost matches her hair. Plastic bracelets clank with a wave of her hand and the scent of flowers hangs in the air. We can always do lunch tomorrow.

I turn around with the shake of my head. Strange and pushy.

Chapter 2

There’s one thing in my life I always want. One thing I crave constantly. One thing I can’t get enough of. Food. Between the bare cupboards at my house and the state of my funds, my stomach doesn’t know the word discriminate. There is practically nothing I won’t eat. Things like beets or blue cheese or liver—things most people scoff at—I inhale. And I have a feeling if I wasn’t a human garbage can or if I were a picky eater, I would have never grown to six feet tall.

Right now, I stare at a half-wrapped sub sandwich and wonder how long it’s been sitting in the bottom drawer of the fridge. The paper wrapped around the bread is crumpled and faded. The end sticking out hard and crunchy. The only other option, the moldy fast food burger on the shelf, isn’t an option. My stomach rumbles despite the funk of the burger. In defeat, I pull out the half-eaten sandwich, tear off the bitten end, and take a huge bite. I’d guess four days. I kick the grease covered fridge door shut and take another bite. Really, except for the mushy vegetables, it doesn’t taste too bad.

First you’re late so you can run around in circles, Ron, my stepfather, bellows from the other end of the garage louder than the ever present rock music coming from the speakers above. Now you’re taking a break to eat? His face beams as red as his beard and hair.

I’ll never understand how my mother, a successful attorney, had dated then decided to marry Ron. Of course, she was always attracted to biker types. She spent the summer she turned thirty-five with my father. He blew into town and her life on a bike on one humid summer day then blew out before autumn brought a drop in the ever-present Southern Florida heat. But Ron and marriage? Sure when they met the shop did well, but after the first year, hell from the words I do, his work habits stared declining, his time on the couch lengthened, and his beer belly appeared.

I stuff the rest of the sub in and say through a mouthful of food, I’m coming. No use arguing. Explaining I haven’t eaten since lunch, ran over five miles in the heat, and that it’s now seven o’clock will just piss him off more.

Quit jerking around! He’s coming to check on the tank tomorrow before it gets the clear coat!

Irritation held in check, I chuck the torn piece of sandwich in the trash, grab the stack of stencils from the table, and snag the tape on the way to counter.

He wants blue and silver with gray shadows, Ron snaps and dumps the paint jugs on the counter. He pokes at my chest. If it runs, poke, you’d better touch it up. Double poke. Or I’m docking your pay.

I force myself not to scowl. The front bell rings and Ron gives me a narrowed look before going to answer the door. I tape the first stencil onto the motorcycle’s gas tank I stripped, sand blasted, and painted black over the last three days.

Docking my wage. What a lame ass threat. He pays me peanuts. If I wasn’t positive he’d kick me out of my own house, I’d quit. Fast food places pay more to flip burgers. Unfortunately, not enough to for rent, food, and clothes. At least with the hours I’d get while going to high school. And though I shouldn’t, I feel guilty leaving Ron and the boys to fend for themselves. They’re too dang lazy to survive. But in less than two months, graduation then freedom.

Guilt be dammed.

After twisting on the jug of blue paint, I turn on the air compressor and spray the tank slowly for even coverage. I’m not an artist. It’s just old red beard doesn’t have the patience to do the job, while his sons, Mike and Junior (after Ron of course), don’t have the skill to paint a two-by-four. Yet Ron keeps taking the paint jobs as if I can tackle anything. Hence the reference to the intricate job where the paint ran.

Once again, I’m not an artist.

When both sides have blue flames and the noisy compressor is off, Ron’s loud voice booms from the front shop. Dang. I was hoping he’d left so I could sneak off to get something else to eat. I’m still starving.

I grab a ratchet and go work on the rebuild bike while the paint dries. When I was thirteen, Ron married my mother and I knew nothing about bikes. At fourteen after my mom died, I knew a little. By fifteen, I could build a bike. I don’t have anything against motorcycles—they are cool—I’m just getting a little sick of working on them. Or maybe it’s not the work, rather the peanut pay.

Dustan! Ron roars from the front.

Yeah? I holler back. Like I need his interruptions. I still have homework to do and at this rate, I’m going to be up until two a.m. again.

Get over here!

I pull the tire off, wipe my hands on my grease encrusted jeans—I use the same pair for every shift since I only have three other pairs—and go see what he wants. As I get closer to his messy office, a female voice mixes with the rock music from his favorite station blasting from above. Though I’m imagining some biker chick who probably wants some ridiculous art I’m incapable of, Ron stands in the way and all I can see is a tall pair of combat boots. When I get next to my stepfather, my eyeballs almost pop on the floor.

With green eyes bright again, Harmony stands across from us.

What the hell?

Dustan, he points a greasy finger at me then her, Harmony. She mouths hi and waves her fingers at me. Since you can’t keep up with your workload, she’s going to help you.

I feel suddenly as girly as she looks. I’m actually, really going to faint. You hired her?

His lip curls at me. Isn’t that just what I said?

Harmony sways to the music and smiles at me. I gawk. She looks like the only work she’s ever done is applying lipstick. But it’s not the girl thing. My shock comes from the fact my stepfather has never hired anyone. He just works me to the bone.

Between interviewing her and her resume, Ron waves a paper in the air, she can paint and do repairs. He tosses the resume into a nearby filing cabinet and plucks his keys from the paper-strewed desk. Take a few minutes to show her around then get back to work. He points a key at my chest. The paint job better be done when I come in tomorrow morning at eleven along with a whole hell of lot more torn off the rebuild.

I watch him walk out the door then turn to the girl swaying to the music. Her wide smile has my jaw clenching. Is this some kind of joke?

Her lips tighten in a straight line and she plants her hands on the pink, shiny belt at her waist. Unsurprisingly, her nails match the color of the belt. Why would you say that?

I dunno? I cross my arms. First you track me down in the hall, demand lunch, and now show up at my job?

You think I like you or something? She rolls her eyes. As if.

Do I think she likes me? I don’t know what I think. It’s weird. She’s weird. Ah, I hope not. Her eyes flash. I mean you don’t even know me.

Look Dustan. I get it’s like a freaky coincidence but chill out. I have a boyfriend back in…in… Cali. I’m just here for the job. Okay?

Cali? I echo.

Um, like in California.

You’re from there?

Like didn’t I just say that?

Okay, maybe the repeating confusion is my tired brain. I shake my head as if rebooting it. I have a feeling I might be doing that a lot in the future but Ron hired her so there’s not much I can do about it. Come on, I’ll show you around.

Once we tour the tool area and the stock room while she nods like she knows what’s up, I go to the counter and pull the stencil off the gas tank. We don’t do custom work. I point to the shelf of cubbyholes. Those are stencils for all of the designs pictured on the wall in the office.

Harmony traces a blue flame with a fingertip. I can finish this if you want.

I watch her pink nail trail across the design. If she screws up, Ron will blast through the speakers to the roof. But then his rant might be worth getting rid of her. I’m more than a little fearful she’s going to create more work for me. All right, the gray is for shadowing, the silver for the border.

She shuffles through the pile of stencils on the counter and lines up paint jars. This should be way easy. My stomach rumbles. Loud. She glances at my abdomen without making a comment.

Just make sure the paint dries in between stencils, I say, moving across the garage to the rebuild. And that’s all the help I’m going to give. Soon the compressor is running. I refuse to go and check her work. She claimed she could do the job. If I spend time helping her, what’s the point of having two people here?

Later, I’m under the rebuild when a pair of combat boots appear next to me. I didn’t even notice the compressor was off.

What can I do? she asks, bouncing to the music.

I force myself not to frown at her perkiness. Okay, let’s see how much she really knows. I point to the rebuild. You want to start disassembling the forks?

Sure, she says confidently.

I work and watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s actually fast and not only knows what tools to use, but appears to have used them already. She also figures out where the parts go on the tarp and arranges them in order—while bopping to music. Who would have thought? Amid rock songs and annoying radio commercials, we work side by side without talking. Harmony comes and goes between the rebuild and the paint job. I’m anxious to see her work, but I wait. If she’s as good at painting as she is at disassembling, maybe Ron’s not as dumb as I thought.

At about ten thirty, Harmony yells out, Done!

I set my tools down and advance slowly to the counter. For the second time in one night, my eyeballs almost pop out of my head. The tank is awesome. She hand brushed some silver in the shadows of the flame and added definition with gray inside the flames. The design flows across the black background. The wings actually appear like they’re about to take flight off the tank.

Now, she’s an artist.

It looks great, I say and can’t help a smile. I’m going to be home before midnight.